The Perfect Man

Holly, you've gotta open up.

I'm not so sure about this.

Come on open the door,

tough guy.

Okay.

You look awesome. Turn.

I cannot believe

that you talked me

into going to the dance.

I thought you said

you've been to like,

a million schools.

Schools, a million.

Dances, zero.

I'll get it.

Go.

It's a simple matter

of self-preservation.

I mean,

when you move around a lot...

you just don't let yourself

get attached.

Much less, make plans

to go to school dances.

I hate to break it to you,

but in exactly one week...

your streak is

officially going to end.

Maybe you're right.

Surprise!

Come in.

Jean.

We need to talk.

What?

Jean.

Why? How could you?

Jean.

Wait, don't you "Jean" me.

Just calm down.

Please, calm down.

We can be civilized

about this.

I'll be right back.

Civilized?

Just calm down.

No, why are you

telling me this?

Are you in love with her?

She meant nothing to me.

Well, technically,

they meant nothing to me.

"They"?

"They?"

Look on the bright side.

It's out of my system.

Have a nice day.

Explain this

to me again.

Patsy's back.

It's packing time.

Does this mean you're

not going to the dance?

We'll be gone

by the end of the week.

I'll stay in touch.

Bye.

I'll miss you.

Where are we going

this time?

There's a spot open

at Dolores' bakery.

You know, I've always

wanted to go there...

and you kids

will love Brooklyn.

It's time

for a new adventure and...

I'm sorry, honey.

I know you were finally

making some friends here.

It's no biggie.

There's friends everywhere.

Right?

Hey, all you bloggers.

It's me:
Girl on the Move.

Well, here's a big shocker.

My mom got her heart broken.

Again.

Yep, we're starting off

on another big adventure.

That's my mom's word

for running away.

"T- I-C" Tic.

Trick.

Stick.

Come on,

little Miss Mary Sunshine.

Play the game.

Give us a word

with "tic" in it.

Fine.

Tragic.

Fantastic.

Pathetic.

Ecstatic.

Thank you.

Sarcastic.

Psychotic.

It's genetic.

By some miracle...

my mom only got

one speeding ticket

the whole way.

It's Miss Jean Hamilton.

Are you married?

He should write her a ticket

for reckless flirting.

Wow!

I will say one thing, though.

For those of you

who haven't done it yet...

put "Must see

New York skyline"...

on your list of things

to do before you die.

Oh, wow!

Oh, girls!

I bet it's full of

quaint details, pretty

moldings on the ceilings...

and old hardwood floors.

And charming little

rat droppings

in the breakfast nook.

How delightful.

Cut it out.

It's going to be perfect.

The sad thing is, I'm actually

getting good at this.

If all else fails,

I have a very

promising future...

as a professional mover.

Our new apartment has history

and character.

And exotic local wildlife.

My mom calls it home.

I call it the

Witness Relocation Program.

Mommy, look!

There it is.

I told you.

The same one

as in Wichita.

It still comes out

every night.

Even in hard times.

To remind us

that every day holds

the potential for beauty.

It's getting late,

and I'm wiped.

So, time to hit the sheets.

Even though I have no idea

which box they're in.

Keep reading

my on-line journal

for more days...

in the life

of a teenage gypsy.

I'll be here.

The same me,

just a different zip code.

No! That's it! I'm not going.

You go with him.

Sorry.

Check her out.

Hey, you.

Yeah, you.

How much your kicks

cost you?

What?

I paid $50 for mine.

You?

Free.

I pulled them

out of a garbage can

somewhere in Portland.

You win.

See you, freak.

Hey, you're new here?

Yeah, how'd you know?

Your skin.

My skin looks new?

It looks virgin.

No piercing, no tats.

See, us Brooklyn girls,

we lose our skin virginity

by fifth grade.

In fifth grade,

I was just learning

long division.

Attention, all students.

Check in with your

homeroom monitor each day...

That stinks.

You're going to

have to take

your yearbook photo...

with all the losers

who missed it

in the fall.

I don't do yearbook photos.

You have no choice.

It's like taxes

and death.

Mandatory pain.

If you don't

do it yourself...

they'll hunt you down

like an animal

and force you to smile.

Not if I'm not here anymore,

they won't.

I'm so glad you came.

Thanks.

Now, we keep the mixers

in the back.

But I got to warn you,

they're all older than God.

They don't really

mix very well...

they just kind of move

things around.

So I hope

your manual mixer's

in real good shape.

And watch out

for our no-good oven.

It's worse than that one

in Chapel Hill.

Off by a good 10 degrees.

Well, you know me.

I'm off by way more than that.

Yes, you are.

And this is Gloria.

Gloria, this is Jean...

the one I was

telling you about.

Really nice to meet you.

Likewise.

Do you know anything

about wilting rose petals?

The fondant's too soft.

You need to add

more cornstarch.

See, I told you she was good.

No wonder my rum cakes

always look so drunk.

Help me. I like you.

You never eat the cakes?

You made it on time?

Yeah, I'm here.

Attention, all students.

Talent show auditions

will take place...

this Friday evening

in the auditorium.

Come on out

and show us what you got.

That's my seat.

Is there assigned seating?

No, but...

Why don't you take

one of those?

I don't like sitting up front.

Me, neither.

Isn't it big?

It's gorgeous!

It's so heavy.

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